


Minundhanem

by thewritingrider



Series: There and Back Again [2]
Category: GreedFall (Video Game)
Genre: Aphra is a lil shit, De Sardet is Embarrassed, F/M, Fluff and Humor, Siora is confused, poor De Sardet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:55:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22205206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewritingrider/pseuds/thewritingrider
Summary: De Sardet really likes capes.
Relationships: De Sardet/Vasco (GreedFall)
Series: There and Back Again [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1600456
Comments: 5
Kudos: 70





	Minundhanem

**Author's Note:**

> More Vasco bullshit. Maybe one of these days I'll pull myself together, but today is not that day.

Of all the cities erected upon the island of Teer Fradee, San Matheus is, by far and away, her least favorite. From witnessing a man being choked to death in the middle of the town square by a shrieking Inquisitor, to the screeches of the giant _Nádaig frasamen_ as it was burned alive in the background, or even the fact that she _always got lost_ , Sylvania De Sardet hated the place more than anything. 

Their Port Quarter, though, had some excellent shopping. 

“What do you think of this, Siora?” De Sardet asks, picking up a pendant from one of the market stalls. The vendor has a looking glass on his shop counter, and she holds it up to her neck as her friend looks up beside her. “I think it would look nice at Constantin’s next ball.”

“I suppose,” the _doneigad_ says carefully. “But I will never understand these rituals you insist upon. What purpose do they serve?”

“Our politics are a little more… subtle, than your people’s,” Sylvania laughs. She sets the necklace back on the counter, eyeing a gold ring instead. She hefts it into her palm; it’s got a solid weight, and she can feel the enchantment pulling at her skin. Strong, smooth, fluid. Well crafted, indeed. “But you’re right. Something more practical, maybe?”

“If you want practical,” Aphra pipes from behind her, “You should think about replacing that pistol of yours. Shoddy work on that barrel.”

De Sardet sighs, giving the merchant an apologetic smile as they leave and move on to the next stall. “Must everything be about combat these days?” she wonders aloud. “What if I just want something pretty to wear at home? I am a Court Lady, I’ll have you know.”

“Yes, like the constant bowing and scraping of everyone around you has let us forget,” the scientist drawls, but her grin is good-natured. De Sardet chuckles as they begin to peruse the goods at the armorer’s stall. “And you want ‘something pretty’ for Vasco, don’t bother lying about it.”

Siora nods her head in enthusiastic agreement, even as she wrinkles her nose at the ‘stifling’ goods on display. De Sardet had never been able to force her into something more protective; she always said it made her too hot. “Yes, it is good to want to please your _minundhanem_. It brings my heart joy to see our peoples have these things in common.”

“You two sure are making a lot of assumptions today,” Sylvania says loudly. She spies a pair of gloves hanging on a rack behind the vendor’s head, and she asks him politely if she can take a look. “I like him very much, but we haven’t made any formal commitments.”

“What formal commitments do you need for all that snogging?” Aphra snorts, and De Sardet flushes beet red, for it is at that precise moment the merchant returns with her gloves. She tosses him a bag of coins and beats a hasty retreat when he gives her a lecherous grin, not even bothering to count the money or inspect them to see if she actually wanted them. Aphra and Siora cackle behind her. 

It is true, however much she wishes her private affairs would stay that way. It’s hard to keep secrets from these people, when she spends every hour of every day with them, but… still. Her entire life up to this point has been on display, either for the courtiers in her uncle’s palace or the ambitious of New Serene, hoping to use her influence to curry favor with her flighty cousin. It is nice to have something for herself, and only herself. 

Vasco is lovely, a witty and sarcastic man who always seems to have a good sense of her humor. She is more than willing to admit to herself that she perhaps, maybe, _possibly_ is stupidly in love with the Naut, but they have never spoken of such things to one another, and certainly not to their friends. She knows he worries about their future, about her responsibilities and his own, about asking too much of her should he go back to sea. She tries to give him his space. The last thing she wants is to pressure him, place expectations on his shoulders when she is unsure if he feels just as strongly. It would not be fair. 

It certainly doesn’t help that the man is a _fantastic kisser_.

“I am _so_ glad you are having such fun at my expense,” Sylvania says archly. “Your entertainment warms the cold, dead cockles of my heart.”

“Apologies, _carants_ ,” Siora giggles. “You are so sensitive about something so wonderful. It is so novel!”

“We… _renaigse_ are more cautious with these things. We don’t have mind connections, much as that might make things easier.”

“Then how do you know if you are truly _minundhanem_?”

“We don’t.” Sylvania shrugs, even as an uncomfortable chill squeezes around her chest at the thought. “You just have to hope the other is honest, and that your feelings mirror the other.”

“That… is very sad.” Siora looks truly chagrined by such news, even as Aphra scoffs. They continue along the docks, and De Sardet watches the waves roll in against the bell tower. As much as she might hate San Matheus, their port is undoubtedly beautiful. _Vasco would like it here. Perhaps we shall take a walk this evening_.

A flutter of deep blue catches her eye. 

Sylvania looks in the direction of the unexpected movement, and her eyes settle on a merchant stall draped in a variety of richly dyed cloth. _Capes_ , she thinks, and suddenly her whole day seems brighter. She loves capes. So much so it is a favorite topic of teasing amongst her friends. Even Constantin tells her it is strange. She can’t help it; the way they snap and wave as she bursts through doors or turns on her heel is so satisfying. 

De Sardet makes a beeline for the booth even as Aphra begins laughing at her. “You’re going to need an entirely new chest for all these things if you keep at it.”

“You say that as if it is an insult!” Sylvania replies as she begins rummaging through the folded cloth. “You cannot deny they add a certain dramatic flair to all the clanking plate that perpetually haunts our camps.”

“I like them,” Siora agrees. “We have similar ones made of feathers.”

“Oh, this one is nice!” Aphra pulls a deep purple cloak, embossed with silver thread in an elegant looping pattern, from the bottom of one of the piles, nearly toppling the entire stack in the process. The merchant makes an alarmed sound, her eyes nearly bugging out of her skull. “I don’t think I’ve seen you wear this color. But,” she whips it around her shoulders, and the regal color is striking against her dark skin and green afkhan, “I think it suits me better.” 

Sylvania has to laugh. “Yes, I agree. And blue is more my shade.”

“If I may, your Excellency,” the shopkeeper says, bending to take something from beneath the countertop, “If you like blue, I do have this.”

The cape she hands Sylvania is indeed gorgeous. It is heavy in her hands, lined on the inside with thin filaments of steel pressed inside cured leather; she can feel magic pulsing from the barely-there metal. The material is luxurious, thick and sturdy wool, and De Sardet can almost feel the comfortable weight of it settling about her neck. The collar is soft and supple oiled leather, with a simple clasp at the throat. She turns it over in her hands, pleased, when she notices a flash of golden thread stitched upon one of the edges. 

Curious, she shakes the cape open fully, and finds herself face-to-face with the Naut Sigil. 

Aphra bursts into loud cackles of laughter, and Sylvania feels her face heat as her mouth drops open. Siora, somewhere in the background, asks what is so funny, but De Sardet cannot seem to find her tongue to answer. _Of course_.

The craftsmanship, she has to admit, is truly impeccable. The embroidery is smooth and unbroken, perfectly depicting a golden compass rose upon the rolling sea. It shimmers in the sunlight, flickering as the cape flutters in the ocean breeze. It is beautiful, finely made. She wants it. For many reasons, chief among them...

But it is _entirely_ inappropriate. 

“Don’t make that face!” Aphra crows, wiping at her eyes. The poor shopkeeper looks completely befuddled. De Sardet is still holding the garment up in wonder, and has no idea what expression she must be making to warrant such a response. “You have to buy it!”

“I --” 

“Yes, you must, _carants_ ,” Siora chimes in. “You spoke of honesty, yes? Is this not honest?”

“But… no formal commitment!” she squeaks. Her. Legate De Sardet, _squeaking_. Kurt will have her head. “It cannot be appropriate. Can it?”

Oh, but she _wants_ it. So very badly. She wants the promise, the words, the pretty exchanges and little gifts between sweethearts. She wants to be courted, foolish as it is for a grown woman to desire such things, but even so. Vasco has not yet even dared to hold her hand in the streets, for fear of tarnishing her reputation, despite her many assurances that literally no one would care, and if they did, she certainly didn’t. She yearns for the little touches and whispered endearments whenever the whim strikes. Breathless, impassioned encounters in the privacy of her home -- or the occasional secluded grotto -- are all well and good, but… She wants more. So much more.

To go so far, make such a bold statement… she doesn’t know if he’ll tolerate it well. 

“Men are rubbish at feelings,” Aphra tells her grandly, before plopping her own coin purse on the shop counter to pay for her purple cloak. “He’ll like it. I’m sure of it.”

“I don’t know…” 

“Come now,” Siora admonishes. “You love him, yes? I see it in your eyes every day.”

“ _Siora_!”

“What? Why do you want these things to be secrets? They are meant to be celebrated and shared!”

“I --” De Sardet loathes nothing more than being lost for words. “We… I don’t want to pressure him.”

“You are a strong and beautiful woman,” the islander tells her sternly, and Sylvania flushes, “With a great many admirers, among my people and your own. Vasco should be honored by your choice, not unsettled!” 

“Well, maybe…” She narrows her eyes at her native friend. “Wait. Among your people? Who?”

“Ullan,” Siora answers flippantly, plucking at the cape in De Sardet’s hands. The Legate nearly chokes on her own spit. “He finds your eyes ‘clear and guileless,’ and thinks you would make a fine queen.”

“ _What_?” Briefly, she contemplates throwing herself off the pier. “Is that what he’s been telling you all this time?”

“You’re shitting me!” Aphra crows, and her face will split apart if she grins any wider. “Just wait until we tell Vasco! Surely he’ll loosen up at the knowledge of such fine competition.”

“Well, then you be his queen!” De Sardet snaps, clutching the cloak to her chest. She cannot believe what her life has become. Somewhere, somehow, her cousin is laughing at her. “Surely you are jesting, Siora? Ullan cannot possibly want… that.”

“Why should he not?” The _doneigad_ appears genuinely confused at Sylvania’s aghastness. “You are kind and honest, with a fair face, _on ol menowi_. You would make a fine _mál_.”

De Sardet splutters, wanting nothing more than for a hole to open beneath her feet. “It’s absurd!”

“If this troubles you so, why do you hesitate to buy the cloth with your _minundhanem’s_ markings?”

That pulls her up short. Sylvania casts about for a quick rebuttal, desperate for some excuse that does not make her sound like a panicking child, but ultimately fails. Shaking her head, she looks down at the fine garment in her hands once more, furrowing her brow. Maybe… they did have a point? It would be so very nice to announce her allegiances, regardless of origin, and if it did truly bother him, she could always return it. She tries not to think about the conversation that would precede such an outcome.

Mind made up, De Sardet hands the cape back to the waiting merchant. “I’d like this wrapped, if you please,” she says. “How much?”

“25 pieces, your Excellency.”

“Here you are. Yes, thank you. Have a lovely afternoon, Madame.”

Her home isn’t far from the Port Quarter, and De Sardet struggles to keep up with Aphra, lugging her bags, as the scientist practically sprints back to her townhouse, gleeful with her new gossip. “Please,” the Legate tries to beg, “Aphra, do be considerate --”

“Oh, pish-posh. Let us make fun of him for a bit; he can take it.”

De Sardet knows this is true because she does it all the time, but playful flirting banter is a far cry from intentional aggravation. But, alas, Aphra has already blown through her door by the time De Sardet and Siora manage to catch up with her. She is waiting in the sitting room, and, just her luck, Vasco is indeed home. Petrus and Kurt are nowhere to be found; out running their own errands, she assumes. 

“Ladies,” the sea Captain drawls from his seat by the fire, feet propped up on her coffee table. “Enjoy your shopping, did you?”

“Oh, yes,” Aphra cackles, and Sylvania resigns herself to her fate as she sets her bags at the foot of the stairs. Sighing, she unbraids her hair, turning back to her friends. “Siora gave us quite the education!”

“That so?” He welcomes Sylvania as she sits next to him, but his brown eyes are confused when she holds herself at a distance. She merely shakes her head, gesturing for him to wait for Aphra to finish.

“Apparently, Ullan is making _certain plans_. Certain plans involving your lady, Captain.”

One of Vasco’s brows slowly rises toward his hairline. De Sardet drops her face into her hands, mortified. “And these plans are…?”

“He’s been talking to Siora about making her his _queen_.”

“What?” De Sardet flinches at the sudden sharpness in his voice. Vasco is not particularly prone to jealousy, but he’d never liked Ullan regardless. _Too shifty_ , he had said. “You’re joking!”

She can hear Siora’s sigh of exasperation. “I do not understand why this is so surprising! Especially to you, Captain Vasco!” De Sardet peeks at him through her fingers as the normally-reserved native’s voice begins to harden. “She is very beautiful, and respected among the clan chiefs. Again and again she shows my people kindness where others have not; why would she not be admired? Why should they not whisper about bonding?”

“Because!” Vasco cries, and she hides her small smile in her palms at the petulance in his voice. “You know good and well she is not interested.”

“Do I? You keep yourself from declaring for her,” Siora snaps. Sylvania wonders how long it would take for her to die if she threw herself upon the fire. She briefly contemplates trying to intervene, but some morbidly curious part of her wonders how this is going to play out, even at her own expense. “It is foreign to me. I cannot understand. It appears to _me_ your interest is shallow and you should not care one way or another who desires her.”

“This is ridiculous!” Vasco snaps. Sylvania has the distinct impression things are about to spiral out of control, but before she can open her mouth to put an end to the bickering, he rounds on her. She does him the favor of meeting his heated glare head on. “You cannot have considered this.”

“Of course not!” Sylvania bursts, cringing at the whine in her own voice. “I had no idea until today, and,” She forces the blue of her eyes to steel, setting her jaw when all she wants to do is crawl under the chaise and hide, “I do not appreciate your insinuation, Captain.”

He scoffs, gesturing at her snarl. “Cut that out; I despise your diplomat face when we argue.”

“And I despise being ordered about, so it appears we are at an impasse.”

Siora snorts, pushing herself off the wall she had been leaning against and stalking for the door. “You are foolish, Vasco, more than you can understand.” She wrenches it out of the way, and a cold burst of air blows into the room, ruffling everyone’s hair. “You keep yourself withdrawn, and cause her nothing but doubt; she cannot even make purchases of beautiful things without worrying over your offense. If you do not declare, someone else will.” And with that, she slams the door behind her. 

In the resounding silence that follows, Sylvania notices that Aphra has managed to make her own escape. She’ll have to wring her neck later. 

Vasco’s mouth is agape as he stares, wide eyed, at the green door, and his skin is frightfully pale. Before she can wonder too hard at it, he whirls to face her, and his expression is so stricken it makes her heart clench painfully in her chest. “Doubt?” He breathes. “You… doubt me?”

“No!” She inches forward, reaching out to gently touch his knee. He doesn’t appear to notice. “No, that’s not what she meant. I just…” And, heaving a great sigh, she knows she will have to return the stupid cape. “There was a cape.”

“A cape?” He could not sound more confused if he tried. “Another one?”

“Yes, another one,” she says smartly, looking away. She draws her knees to her chest, resting her chin upon them as she stares into the fire. “It’s by the stairs. I… wasn’t sure if I should buy it or not.”

She doesn’t look at him as he rises to retrieve the parcel, and when he settles back on the chaise beside her, she finds she only has the strength for a quick glance at his face. It is withdrawn, tight, with a pinched brow and deep frown. She suppresses a flinch. 

Sylvania listens to the sounds of rustling paper as he opens the package, and then the soft movement of wool cloth as he shakes out its contents. He is quiet for a moment, just long enough for her to contemplate fleeing into her bedroom, before he says, “This is a Naut Sigil.”

“Yes.” 

Another beat of silence. “Did you buy this for me?”

That hurts, more than she wants to admit, and she cannot help but feel utterly stupid for letting it get to her. De Sardet closes her eyes, willing the shakiness of her breath away, and answers in an even tone that impresses even herself, “Yes.”

“Oh,” he murmurs gently. She feels him move at her side. “It’s very fine.” Another movement, inching closer. “But you know I don’t wear them.”

_Caught_ , she thinks to herself. She does not reply, keeping her gaze fixed on the fire as she shrugs. She does not trust her own voice, and so does not elaborate. It is a dead give-away, she knows it is, and sure enough, he does not let the matter drop.

“Sylvania,” he says again, “Did you buy this for you?”

“I… maybe.”

“Why?”

She cannot stop the wince this time, and she knows he sees it. Oh, but this man is always knocking her off balance. “It does not signify. I’ll be returning it in the morning.”

“But if you like it --”

“Do _you_ like it, Vasco?” she finally bursts, snapping her eyes up to lock onto his face. She cannot decipher his expression, and it galls her to no end. She is not used to being the one with her heart on her sleeve. “Will such a thing bother you, if I were to wear it in public?”

She can see it in his eyes when all the pieces finally click together, and she hates the way his jaw clenches. Even so, she doesn’t let him speak. Siora’s words have given her an odd sort of confidence. “You worry so much about our future, and are so careful with how we present ourselves. I do not want to pressure you, nor do I wish to force upon you my own wishes. It was a moment of weakness, nothing more. I shall not wear it; have no fear.”

“And this is what you think of me?” he whispers, looking down at the blue cloth in his hands. “Apparently, it is a popular opinion.”

“I understand your hesitance,” she says gently, resting her temple on her knees. “It was presumptuous of me, and I let myself be goaded. It shall not happen again.” She swallows around the lump in her throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t you dare,” he snaps, but before she can be hurt by it, he leans forward and slings the cape about her shoulders, fastening it securely at her throat. She watches him with wide eyes, flabbergasted, and he says, “I should be the one offering apologies.”

“Whatever for?”

“I… did not consider how my actions would seem,” he answers honestly, and he reaches forward to tilt her chin upwards to rest his forehead upon her own. “I never meant for you to think I did not care for you as much as I do.”

“Vasco --”

“I’m not done,” He shushes her. “Siora is correct. My caution has caused you to doubt. You will never be able to pressure me, Sylvania,” he says emphatically, and when she tries to draw away, he holds her chin in place. “Please wear it.”

“Oh.” De Sardet closes her eyes, relaxing into his touch, and she lets him draw her closer until she is flush against his chest, tucked under his chin. “Well, that’s good then.”

“Particularly around Ullan.”


End file.
